Pointless
by cortexx
Summary: Some people deal with the idea that nothing matters in very, very strange ways.


**Purple Guy is not William Afton in this story, as I have not read the books to get a feel for his personality there.**

 **Hope you enjoy this short fic about a descent into madness!**

* * *

Why did he continue to exist?

That was a question that had been lingering his mind, days on days, weeks on weeks, months on months; silently, in the background of every scene in his mind, a little thought asking why. He had taken so many days to pace around his room, angrily brandishi

ng his knife, coming up with all these reasons why he shouldn't just end it, even if it would fee

l so good.

Why wouldn't he, he thought? There wasn't anything visible in his life but pain, as far as he could see. Nothing, he thought, could possibly make this worth it.

He stomped through his halls, a knife's hilt tucked snugly into his hand, fitting like a glove.

The blade shone in the light of the bulb up ahead, drawing his attention to it for a split second - a beautiful custom-made blade, constructed specifically for him and his need to cut meat. Yes, meat.

The reeled his arm back and threw it dead ahead, into the end of the hall in front of him. The blade stuck.

It landed with a thud, digging deep as he let out a frustrated wail, slumping to the floor. What was it all for? He was going to die anyways, so why'd he bother with all this? All this frustration, all this constantly being tired of life, of all its pains, when he could end it. A number ticked through his mind; four turned to five. Five.

Five, five, five... What did it mean? What could it possibly mean?

Oh. That. Yes.

This was his fifth contemplation of suicide this year.

He had been counting, apparently, because if it grew too high, the number, without his action, then he would need to take action.

A hand reached up to remove the tears that had begun to slide down his face. It was his own, he knew that much; nobody else was in here.

He needed something permanent, some kind of plot, some way to satisfy his urges to kill himself.

Satisfy his urges to kill himself, end it all.

Satisfy his urges to kill _himself._

 _Himself._

Satisfy his urges to _kill._

What, though, could possibly be worth it, to not end it all over?

What?

Well, this life was too painful, he thought. People didn't deserve to live through all of it if it was just going to end and make nothing matter.

He had a plan now. He had something permanent, a brick to which he could _cohisnstruct_ his future.

He stood up abruptly, looking quite ghastly with tearstains and a deranged smile marking his face in equivalent disarray, and eagerly searched through the house for a phone. His bedroom was empty of phones, and anything in general (it only had one closet for clothes and a bed), the bathroom wouldn't have any; damn phone. Where'd he put it?

Then, he remembered; living room. The thought sent a startling jolt of adrenaline through his veins as his body acted on it faster than his mind could, lunging to the doorway like a vicious, rabid animal, desperate for some way to not die.

In some ways, that was what he was.

He picked up the phone, and set it to the side of his head. "Hello?" He spoke, listening to someone pick up.

He was acting kind of erratic today.

"Yes, this is him, I would like to cancel my four o'clock appointment."

It would be tough for the doctor to work with him, considering his state.

"I have more important matters to attend to, is all."

He was doing the other a favor by cancelling the appointment.

"No, I wouldn't like to reschedule."

It would let someone who needed the appointment go, too.

He slotted the phone back into its station, smile somehow impossibly growing larger. He had some work to do.

If the man was spiritual, he would've thought he was going to hell, honestly. This plan of his, this way to make everything in his life perfect, it was... bad.

It had impeccable quality, the ideas were foolproof, but it was bad of him.

They were just children, after all...

Second thoughts began to drip their way down his mind, sliding down like grease on a wall as he paced and he paced and he paced.

He continued pacing, hand on his chin, the other running through his hair nervously.

His eyes, his grey, grey eyes, flicked to the phone again. Maybe he should reschedule his appointment. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Maybe it did get better.

Then he felt like someone had punched him, as he fell backwards; his eyes blinked quietly, his faltering smile letting out a little grumble of pain, as he searched for the perpetrator.

Nonsense, said whoever it was.

It took him a few seconds to realize the voice was in his head. So who had punched him?

If it got better, continued the voice, you wouldn't be here.

He had to admit, they did make a good point. After all, he was in his late thirties (at least, he thought he still was), and it hadn't gotten any better so far.

Yes, this voice was right.

He would go through with it, he would solve his problems.

It didn't really matter if it got better anyways.

Didn't really matter if he got caught doing it.

After all, it was the fact that nothing mattered that drove him to what he would be doing in the coming days.


End file.
